The Tragic Demise of the iPhone Killer
Dead shiny rectangle leads to violent illness and spike in anxiety
I should’ve had a phone. Since that morning I had been sweating out the discomfort of my poor lifestyle choices. Even my beloved USA golds couldn’t ease the stress of my racing heart and tearing eyes, nor could a cup of Café Bustelo that would normally be a welcome comfort.
Coffee was not an option on this type of day and neither was food. Both would only lead to more suffering.
I had messaged Dana earlier in the day and, like always, she said she was coming, she just had to get ready. That meant a litany of follow-up messages and the god-awful chore of waiting for this bougie bitch to “get ready” so we could travel from New London to the big city to cop.
Things had all but dried out in the surrounding 20 miles near my home. This meant I had to expand my horizons to seek out the promised land of New York City.
Dana perplexed me. She was the kind of girl who never left the house without a $2500 handbag that was full of uncapped needles. Reaching inside was not only a hazard but also ensured that her rigs were always dull. Dull as Andy Dufresne’s rock hammer from Shawshank.
Noon comes and still no news. Then 1:30. Nothing. I hit her up again and stress that I am sick as fuck and I don’t want to miss the train. She fires back insisting that she’s sick as well and that the train comes and goes once every hour. King of the Hill drones on in the background. I make countless trips downstairs to piss. Each time I walk past my mom who is in a similar state to me as we have both succumbed to this meaningless life, should I say, death style. 4 PM comes and my stomach is cramped. My skin is crawling and my pounding head is dry and crying out for water. The only ingestible sustenance for me was a vat of red fruit punch Kool-Aid in the refrigerator. I would take only tiny sips to avoid trips to the bathroom.
At 5:30 PM Dana finally says she is leaving the house, which I know really means that she’ll be here in an hour although she’s only 20 minutes away. At 6:30 a black Volvo pulls into the driveway to take me and my wad of $80 into Thank-Christ City. I ran down the stairs and on my way out handed my mother the Nokia phone we shared. She said, “ be careful”. If I was many things, I was never that.
Chanel Chance was the smell mixed with the waxy leather aroma all eurocars have. Her makeup told me how long she spent in the mirror preparing for this sad caper that had everything but the stars of modern Hollywood playing forlorn lovers seeking salvation in each other. In the cupholder, I saw a black rectangle and examined it with curiosity.
“Oh, that? That’s my android. They call it the iPhone killer”
I thought to myself, ‘how could someone afford such a thing?’ Then I remembered her $2500 purse full of heroin and needles. She offered me Xanax which I quickly swallowed with gratitude and we hit the highway to the train station. As we were sitting on the two-hour ride to Grand Central, Dana opened the bottle one or two more times to offer more benzomatic relief until we would reach the city to be healed by a miracle of the everyday variety. We would be healed only of our illness, not our disease, but that’s another story.
Staring out the train window, I wondered, why did she even bring me? Ostensibly, we would get a better deal if we threw down together, but somehow, I felt that my measly 80 bucks was not going to make or break anything. The real reason was she wanted someone, anyone, so she wouldn’t have to be alone. She was not bad company and I didn’t give a fuck. If someone uses you and you’re using them right back that’s called symbiosis. I swear, it had been two hours and a year when the doors finally opened at our stop. I was so relieved to finally be in New York, so glad that my blood could stop bubbling.
As our feet hit the filthy tiles of the train station, the god, or the irony, or the lack thereof, saw fit to make his move. If you’ve ever heard the sound of that brand new smartphone hit the floor with a deafening smack, I’m sure you know where this is heading. It seems the iPhone killer had been struck down. This was 10–13 years before every person had the latest version of blah blah blah with portrait mode, night vision, and “stalk my girlfriend “ features. This particular android was a black shiny brick made instantly useless after the tragedy at Grand Central Station.
The device refused to turn on. The precious digits linking us to our savior evaporated with the soul of this first-world electronic device. CPR was attempted, but to no avail.
Mi Sun Chang is an Automotive Locksmith who also happens to write memoirs about her depraved past. It helps put her depraved present into perspective. She lives in Rhode Island with her ivory mystery snail (girlfriend) and two beloved cats.
